white birds
don't fight against the fists of time
running down the line drew by the passing sun
sleeping down on the bottomless pit named Universe
and meanwhile not forgetting to love
the simple song called life
tradition long forgotten in the world of men
that we watch through the magnifying glass
only to see the metaphysics shaped in altars
dedicated to the destruction of minds
through a halo of passion for lost prophets
that spelled faith with their last dying breath
carving icy symbols in fiery rocks
a life transformed in damnation
and a world rapped up in a white string of black silk
surrounded by tears from the grave
emerging water from every orifice
burning flesh and bone
smashing waves of salt
running down my cheek